


least the rose alive must three

by canardroublard



Series: least the rose alive must three [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Multi, Polyamory, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, and everyone still has free will, but having a soulmate is neither simple nor easy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22975126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canardroublard/pseuds/canardroublard
Summary: This isnothow Illya imagined meeting his soulmates.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Series: least the rose alive must three [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651135
Comments: 38
Kudos: 233





	least the rose alive must three

**Author's Note:**

> See end note for additional warnings.

_lovetree!least the_

_rose alive must three,must_

_four and(to quite become_

_nothing)five times,proclaim_

_fate isn't fatal_

_**—** a heart her each petal_

-e.e. cummings, untitled ("rosetree,rosetree")

* * *

_**Before - Napoleon** _

* * *

Napoleon Solo is six years old when he first asks his mother about the words on her shoulder.

She startles then reaches up, seemingly on instinct, to tug down the cap sleeve of her dress. The little black letters, flinty and faintly shimmering, like a burnt-out log from a bonfire, disappear from his view.

"Never you mind," she mutters. Her blue eyes, a perfect reflection of Napoleon's own, flick across the hall to the living room, where his father sits. After a moment of staring at her husband her mouth twists. Napoleon isn't quite sure what that means.

"But–?"

"Enough."

Even to his overcurious child's ears her tone permits nothing further on the subject.

* * *

The next day he asks his father.

In the driver's seat of their beat-up old Ford truck his father startles, just as his mother had. He plucks up his hand from the gear shift and drags work-rough fingers through his beard.

"Those are her Words."

Later, Napoleon will learn that the term doesn't normally receive capitalization. But his father gives it a reverent weight; the way Napoleon has heard the priest at church speak of God. Like a breath of something holy and unknowable.

"What are Words?"

"A few people, just a few, get them when they're teens. It's always the first words that one other person will speak to you, the first time you meet them. A markmatch, you're supposed to call that person."

"But what does it mean?"

His father goes back for a return pass of hand through beard, eyeing him with lowered brows.

"Church says they're the work of the Devil," he grunts. "A lot of people, their match is someone that's supposedly the wrong colour, wrong sex, stuff like that. So the marked have been chosen by God to be tested, to resist the temptations of lust, sin. Anyone asks, that's what I told you."

Napoleon squints at him. "But that's not what you think?"

The corner of his father's mouth lilts up. "You're too damn smart, kid. Just like your mother. Two of you could rule the world someday." He grins then, or what passes for a grin from him. "Okay, you wanna know what I think? I think that's a bunch of judgmental bullshit. Probably gonna go to hell for that but wouldn't be the only reason so who gives a damn? After seeing things with your mother, I can't believe there's anything evil in it. I just can't. There's–" he gestures with his hand, searching for a phrase, "there's a different word for it. Old word. _Soulmate_. And that's bigger than what the Church thinks, bigger than any of us. It's just...it's love. Pure, sacred love."

"So you're soulmates? You and mom?"

His father's eyes glide away, tracing something beyond the horizon. Then the truck turns, pulling into their driveway.

"We're home," his father says before bolting for the house.

* * *

In the next few years he tries to ask his parents again. Neither will answer.

He sees a soulmark only once more during that time, on the wrist of Evelyn, his mom's friend, while she reaches up to take the teacup that Napoleon's father offers her with a warm smile. But when Napoleon asks whether Evelyn is her soulmate his mother turns spectre pale and tells him to _never_ ask that again. _Ever_.

Evelyn doesn't seem to come around as much after that.

* * *

Though he inherited his blue eyes from his mother, from his father he gets a boundless love of learning. Of books. This hunger for knowledge drives him to spend long weekend days in the library under the stern eye of Mrs. Daniels, who gives him sour looks when he strays into the grown-up books but doesn't stop him.

The idea of soulmates sticks to something inside his brain. But beyond some vague bluster about damnation and hellfire at Easter mass he hasn't heard a single word about the topic in four years, as if somewhere, sometime before he was born, everyone made a collective agreement to act as if the whole thing just doesn't exist.

So when he's shuffling through the history section one day, neck cricking from tilting sideways to read the book spines, he does a double-take at one title.

_On Match-Marks: A Treatise_

The book is old, fragrant with that acrid tang of aged paper. He flips it open at random and is met with an engraved plate of words on a person's shoulder.

_Terribly sorry_

On the opposite page there's a matching plate showing words on what looks to be a man's arm.

_No, no, all my fault_

Secreting this book past Mrs Daniels and her gossipy, disapproving scowl is Napoleon's first ever theft.

(Some days he really wishes he'd stopped here.)

* * *

By the amber glare of a flashlight under his blankets he pours through the book. The text is dry, academic, but even this is enough to inspire his imagination.

A woman jostles a man on the street. _Terribly sorry_ , she apologizes. _No, no, all my fault_ , he reassures her.

What does that moment feel like? What happens next? Napoleon remembers his father's words, four years ago. _Love_ , he'd called it. So whatever happens it must be good.

Even though at ten he's a little young, and even though the odds are vanishingly small, Napoleon begins to check his skin every morning in the bathroom mirror.

* * *

Sitting at the kitchen table a few weeks later, like he did the very first time he asked his mother, he tips his head to look up at her.

She's standing at the sink, scrubbing dishes while his father dries, hip-to-hip, companionable and comfortable. Days like this, Napoleon still can't quite believe that they're not soulmates. His father kisses his mother on the cheek then ducks off into the other room. His mother turns to him.

"Any reason you're staring, Napoleon?"

"You and dad are happy, right?"

"Course."

"Even though you're not...?"

Her eyes narrow. "That doesn't have anything to do with it. He's a good man. Kind. Not many men would've done what he has for me."

"Do you love him?"

"I do."

“But what about Evelyn?"

An odd smile breaks on her face, dragged down by the sadness that clings to the corners of her eyes. She shakes her head and turns back to the sink.

"You can love more than one person, Napoleon.”

* * *

One summer day two years after his first research, he forgets to check his body for marks.

He's going swimming at the river with friends from school so he bolts out the door with a shouted 'back tonight!' to his mother. When they're at the riverbank he begins to tug his shirt off, listening to the chatter of his friends. It's only once his shirt gets stuck over his head and he's struggling to free himself that he realizes something has changed. His friends have gone completely silent.

He turns to face them, pulling his shirt down rather than continuing his wrestling match with it. Everyone is staring at him. Theo Robinson's mouth is hanging open a little.

"What? You guys scared to race me?" Napoleon forces himself to laugh. He doesn't know why they're looking at him like that but he does know that he doesn't like it.

"You–There's–" stutters Johnny Ruskin.

Glancing down at himself, Napoleon finds nothing to explain their reactions. Same old shirt, same old shorts, same old Napoleon.

"On your stomach," Theo says. "You've got..." Then he just gestures.

Napoleon swallows. Wraps his fingers around the hem of his shirt and, on a nod from Johnny, pulls it up, freezing at what he sees. A flash of black, inky and shimmering, on his stomach. Towards his left side.

All of the blood in his body is stampeding through his ears, too loud, so loud he can't hear anything over his own shock. He forgets to breathe then has to grab a stuttering gulp of air, nearly choking himself.

"What–what's it say?" he asks, contorting to try to look at his own stomach before giving up at the awkward angle.

There's a jostle as all of his friends shove each other forward, no one willing to step closer. Eventually Theo loses, trudging over and crouching before him, breath skating cool across his stomach and making all the hairs on his neck stand up. After a second Theo, already pale, turns ghostly.

"C'mon, tell me," Napoleon pleads. "I don't care if it's something stupid."

"I dunno." Theo backs away, eyes narrowed with such suspicion that Napoleon can't breathe again.

"What do you mean you don't know? Stop messing with me."

"It's not that," says Theo, cold and wary. "It's in, I dunno, I think it's in _German_."

Total silence.

"Are you a fucking Kraut?" someone asks.

"Jesus, Johnny, I'm not a Kraut!" Napoleon hates the way his voice breaks around the slur. "You know that!"

But they just stare, caution mixed with curiosity as if they expect him to leap to attention and bleat _heil Hitler!_ like the Nazis they've all seen in the newsreels.

Napoleon had imagined so many different ways of this happening, but it had never been like _this_. So he yanks his shirt back down, tucks it in for good measure, ducking his head as he hurries away and pretending that's enough to block out the whispering that starts the second his back is turned.

His mother asks why he's home so soon and he must yell something to her, though he has no clue what. He shuts himself in the bathroom, drops his backpack and stands before the mirror, sweating and panting from the run home. With querulous hands he captures the bottom of his shirt, pulls it up until a flash of black emerges, stark as blood against his white skin.

The letters are mirrored, of course, and smaller than he'd expected. Small enough that he has to stand on his toes, hips digging into the counter as he squints down at his reflection, struggling to read the backwards foreign words.

"Ih...Ihr...Ak-sent..." is as far as he gets the first time. He grabs a pencil and a scrap of paper from his bag and crawls up onto the counter next to the sink, folding his knees and pressing closer to the mirror while he carefully copies the phrase one letter at a time. Once he's done he stares at the scrawl in his hand.

_Ihr Akzent ist ziemlich gut für einen Amerikaner_

His words. He has words now. A soulmark. A _soulmate_.

He tries to imagine how they'll meet but it's hard when he can't make out the meaning of the phrase. ‘Amerikaner’ must be ‘American’. Perhaps ‘Akzent’ is ‘accent’? The rest is beyond him. And there's another puzzle, too. All of his research has said that the placement of the mark corresponds to the first deliberate touch of the soulmate. But what sort of first meeting would have someone touching his _stomach_? Who on earth does that?

Who is his soulmate?

"Ihr Akzent ist...zem– no, ziemlich gut...für einen Amerikaner," he reads slowly, knowing he must be pronouncing everything wrong but not knowing enough to correct himself. Still, he can't stop murmuring the phrase, gaining confidence with his best guess at the sounds, tasting the shape of it.

After a few more repetitions from their reproduction on the page he lifts his shirt again to trace the mark, the real thing, with his fingers. None of the books had said anything about the mark standing out but when disappointment flashes through him he realizes that he'd subconsciously still expected to feel _something_. Yet the mark is just another patch of skin, smooth and unbroken as if it had always been with him.

But then his mother is banging on the door asking if he's okay so he shoves his shirt down, stuffs the paper with his words into his pocket as he yells that he's fine, flushes the toilet and lets the sink run for a moment. She gives him one of those motherly _looks_ when he emerges, but he shrugs it off and bustles past her, his destination clear.

* * *

The rest of the day crawls along at the library while he combs through every useful book he can find. Which is not many. The topic of soulmarks is maddeningly taboo. So he uncovers little new, confirming that the soulmark is the first words on the first point of contact but not much else.

On his way out of the library he pauses, eyes falling to the foreign languages section.

There are four books on learning German. He checks them all out.

* * *

His distraction is so complete, staying up far too late reading his German books, that it's not until the following morning that he finds his _other_ mark.

Just before he climbs into the shower he stands, now shirtless, in front of the bathroom mirror, intending to take another look at the mark on his stomach. But he freezes at a second scrawl of black, this one on his bare chest, tucked into the cove of his left collar bone.

It _can't_ be.

Dizzy with disbelief, he leans closer, discovering that the little letters are in English. Easier for him to read backwards.

_Obviously I was briefed about you, your corrupt and criminal background_

Napoleon frowns. Though there's no language barrier here, he still can't figure out what to make of these words. His _corrupt and criminal background_?

He turns away from the mirror, faintly nauseous, shaken far more than he'd ever admit. Wishing for advice, but knowing there's nothing anyone could do, knowing his mother won't talk and his father doesn't know what to say. So he just swallows his bitterness and tells himself to ignore that one.

* * *

The rumours have already begun when he returns to school in September. Walking down the hall he has to fend off three attempts to yank up his shirt before he makes it to his classroom. One of the boys he was with on that day must have blabbed, because everyone is calling him 'Kraut lover'.

So he learns to charm people until they forget why they hated him in the first place, a life skill which will be the cornerstone of his adult life. And he switches from Spanish to German class.

* * *

Somehow, despite the army doctor raising hell about his mark in German and how unseemly it would be for him to go falling in love with the enemy, he still ends up in Europe. Either the doctor didn't note the mark in his file or they needed an interpreter who speaks German more than they cared about the words on his skin. By the time he’s deployed they say that the war is mostly won here in Europe. All that's left is to mop up some stragglers and race the Soviets to Berlin. Easy.

Apart from the fact that sometime before Napoleon arrived, the end of the fucking world must have happened.

Nearly suffocating under the weight of all the death and pain into which he's been submerged, he speaks German to everyone he meets, hoping to receive praise of his accent, to receive his _words_ , in response. He knows it's naïve but it's just about the only scrap of hope he can find so he clings to it with the desperation of a dying man.

Some people get close. "Für einen Amerikaner ist ihr Deutsch ziemlich gut" or similar things, but the war ends, his service drags on, and he just about gives up on that dream.

* * *

During the aftermath of Napoleon's third big theft--a gorgeous Dutch vanitas, all skulls and peonies clinging tenuously to their wilting petals, the fragility of mortal life rendered in dark oils--he catches himself shirtless in a mirror at his hotel room.

_Obviously I was briefed about you, your corrupt and criminal background_

Snorting with dark, pitiless humour, Napoleon turns away. He couldn't escape fate forever.

* * *

He doesn't know how the C.I.A. learned his words. Maybe that army doctor did write them in his records. Maybe they tracked down Theo Robinson and he talked. Either way, they send a German woman after him, a tall, blonde, beautiful woman, and she tells him his accent is pretty good for an American.

In hindsight, it was strange that she never used the word 'soulmate'. Like it never sat right with her. It was strange that she didn't let him see the words on her skin at first, and after that only brief glimpses. In hindsight, a lot of things were strange.

 _Hindsight can go shoot itself in the motherfucking foot_ , Napoleon thinks as he sits in his jail cell, betrayed and heartbroken.

Then a man oozes into his cell and smirks down at him, speaking in a voice like he's been gargling crushed glass. "Obviously I was briefed about you, your corrupt and criminal background, Napoleon Solo." Desecrating his other mark, too, as if the first one hadn't been enough.

Napoleon wants to kill this man, Sanders, in a dozen, equally painful ways. He learned a lot of those during the war. He could do them one right after the other, then maybe repeat them in reverse order for a change of pace. But instead he sets his jaw, swallows the hatred searing his throat, and bargains his way out of prison.

And vows to never let his marks be used against him ever again.

* * *

_**Before - Gaby** _

* * *

For most of her childhood Gaby doesn't do much pondering about the marks on people's skin she's heard spoken of in hushed whispers. Her life is too consumed with immediates. At first on staying alive. Then on finding her mother, her father, her uncle. Someone. _Anyone_. Not that it does any good. Most of her foster families are okay. None of them are saints, but most of them at least try. Yet they all send her back in the end. Too broken, this silent little girl, so small and sunk so deep within a grief that no one knows how to heal, least of all her. The years help; she begins to speak again, but she can't shake her instinct for smallness, that inescapable desire to curl up into a ball, tiny, her head buried between her knees and her eyes shut until the world just goes away. But she isn't permitted to disappear, so she attempts existence with varying success.

She doesn't know if her parents had marks and by the time she thinks to ask they're long gone. She's heard the folk-tales and rumours, of course, attempting to explain the words, but it's all a distant concept, nothing that penetrated the barriers she's spent all of these years erecting between herself and what lies beyond. So when she's thirteen and wakes up to find a patch of black letters in the crook of her left arm, inky in the winter sun, she doesn't know what to do. She'd never considered this happening to _her_.

_My woman would never wear anything like that_

Her English is imperfect, picked up in bits and pieces, American G.I.s handing out sweets after the war, catching snippets from radio programs that escaped jamming, but she knows enough to understand the strange, disapproving tone of these words.

Gaby frowns down at her arm. 'My woman'? Who even speaks like that? The possession of the phrase makes her skin crawl, makes her feel trapped, like she did two foster homes ago, the one she kept running away from because the streets were better than life with them.

After a while she can extract no further truths from staring at the words so she crawls out of bed to carry on with her morning routine. As she takes off her pajamas her eyes lock onto another burst of black, this one wrapped over the curve of her right hip.

_Ich dachte mit der original zwei Liter Maschine waren sie untermotorisiert, aber das ist eine gute Verbesserung_

This phrase is strange in a whole different way, the wording so awkward that she can't imagine anyone actually saying it. And the content is also strange; talk of engine upgrades, of all things.

She's never heard of someone having two marks, but there's no one she can ask. The communists have banned all discussion of the marks, furious with the sheer irrationality and unpredictability of the whole concept. Something their scientists can't control. Something that smells a bit too much of religion.

So she tells no one.

* * *

It turns out that telling no one is a good strategy because when she forgets herself a few mornings later and wanders out to breakfast in a short-sleeve shirt, her then foster mother gapes and, within the space of ten seconds, goes through a variety of hues from ghostly pale to livid red. Then the woman hisses at her to stop faking things for attention. Despite Gaby's protests the woman drags her to the sink and scrubs at her skin, first with soapy hands and then a coarse rag, until tears are streaming down Gaby's cheeks and angry speckles of crimson beginning to bloom above the field of raw pink covering her arm.

Yet the black letters shine on, defiant, unchanged.

The woman grabs her again, preparing to go in for another pass. And Gaby, who's spent so long small and silent and afraid, hears someone speak, quiet but steady and sure.

"Nein."

Only after the woman draws back, staring, does Gaby realize that she herself has spoken.

" _Nein?_ " demands the woman.

Instead of an answer Gaby wrenches her arm away, fury buoying her past her fear, and stares right back.

That evening Gaby hears her muttering to her husband that they can't keep the girl now, not with that thing on her arm. They don't need that kind of trouble. It's less than a week before she's back at the group home.

* * *

Gaby gets good at hiding her marks. The one on her hip is easily covered by clothing. The one on her arm is tricky. At first she tries to wear long sleeves but this is far too conspicuous in ballet class so she becomes skilled with whatever makeup she can get her hands on, legally acquired or not.

And in this way she makes it three whole years without anyone else seeing the marks. A strange point of pride, but she is proud nevertheless. Yet all of that goes to hell with Marcus.

At sixteen she's just becoming serious about the whole 'romance’ thing. Working up the nerve to trust someone is a struggle. Finding the time, too, has also been a struggle between school and ballet. It's not that she hasn't wanted a boyfriend, it's that she has _priorities_ , and no boy is going to derail those for her. But Marcus is sweet. He sits with her at lunch and shares his chocolate bars, good imported ones he gets because his father has some fancy government job in customs.

She kisses Marcus after three months. Not her first kiss but the first she's really enjoyed. They go slow, and he's so gentle and kind that everything with him feels good. Until one lazy spring afternoon, lying in a sunbeam that falls across his bed, trading soft kisses, giddy with the shared knowledge that his parents are out of town for the whole weekend so they have his flat to themselves. Her body feels radiant, warmed by the sun and his presence, and Marcus keeps dropping tiny kisses to her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, even her eyelids. It's _perfect_. And that perfection is just enough to tip her over the edge from lazy and sunwarmed to eager and hot.

It's still perfect as his hands slide up her shirt and his mouth ventures down her neck. Even more perfect when his hands find bare skin; her sides, the curve of her hip. It's perfect right until he pulls away to gaze down at her, giddy and smiling. Then his smile vanishes.

"Was ist-?" Gaby begins, but then she stops herself partway through because she suddenly remembers.

Her hip. The one he's staring at.

"'Ich dach mit der original zwei-'" Marcus begins to read, squinting down at her skin. She only lets him get this far before scrambling up the bed and yanking her shirt down. As he looks at her a cloud falls over his expression, and Gaby wants to _scream_ at how much she hates the marks on her skin.

At first Marcus's excuses are polite. That his parents would kill him if they found out, that he doesn't want anything 'complicated'. And then it's less polite, when he stumbles around the implication that she's tricked him somehow, that she should have told him. That if he'd known he wouldn't have—

She doesn't ask him to finish telling her just how much of their time together he _wouldn't have_ if he'd known; she doesn't think there's any answer that won't hurt.

* * *

Gaby's next foster home is different. It's the one she wishes she found years ago. The mechanic is the first one who genuinely seems to want her, not just as a pity project to score points with some God that no one is supposed to believe in anymore.

The mechanic gets sad sometimes from his wife dying the previous year, but Gaby gets sad too so they both just let each other be sad when they need to and it's fine.

So she settles into life in the drafty flat above the chop shop, at first with caution, something she's learned all too well, keeping her bags packed for the first month. And then, ever so slowly, she begins to let her chest loosen, unpack her things, to _live_ for what feels like the first time in her sixteen years on earth. Her new routine becomes school, ballet class, then ducking under some car or another, learning the ways of machines. Surprising herself by how much she enjoys it.

(Somewhere in the back of her head perhaps she thinks of the charcoal letters on her hip which speak of engine upgrades, a language which she understands now. Though she would never, ever admit to learning it at least a little for this reason.)

* * *

After Marcus she tries dating a few more times. But it turns out he isn't the only person who doesn't like finding another's words on her skin.

Yet with a few more years she discovers, when she's with a guy in the alley behind some club that she's a just a little bit too young to get into but one of the other corps ballet knows the bouncer, as long as she doesn't get naked when she fucks anyone they don't need to know. Those quick fumbles in clubs and bars and in the backseats of cars are enough, though. They have to be.

Sometimes she toys with a vague idea of finding some way to remove the marks. Or cover them somehow. Cut them from her skin, tattoo them into unreadability, anything to stop them from existing. Anything to stop her from being tied, inescapably, to these people, whoever they are, without her consent. All she wants is to be free. And to stay that way, she needs to never, ever find her matches.

She never quite works up the courage, though. So instead she just goes through each day with a quiet dread of hearing the two sentences that could ruin her life.

* * *

Even after she ages out of the foster system the mechanic doesn't kick her out. Even after she burns out of ballet from injuries and disillusionment he still doesn't kick her out when by all rights he should. She's a bit broken by that point, her body grown old far before its time, creaking and aching, and her spirit grown tired, oh so very _tired_.

One of her friends, a second soloist from her former company, sets Gaby up with some guy on a real date. He's so sweet, and it quietly kills something in Gaby when she kisses him goodnight and vows to never see him again, because she's been down this road too many times and all of them leave when they see her marks. Every last one.

* * *

On a cold winter day, in their kitchen in the flat above the garage, prodding at her muesli, Gaby tells the mechanic about her marks. She's so scared, but she just needs one person to know who won't hate her for it.

He lets her speak until her words run dry. Then he smiles at her with sad, kind eyes, and tells her he's so very sorry. As she screws her eyes shut he begins to talk about how maybe they should finally escape to West Berlin, how it wouldn't be difficult, just walk down the street and find freedom, but he's said all of these things before but never gotten around to it. She thinks that he's just as tired as her, just about different things.

And so life goes on.

* * *

Later that year the fences start going up. The fences become walls. They're too late to escape.

Her mechanic dies a few months later. Killed by, of all things, a car accident. She should have known better than to let herself grow attached. Everyone leaves her in the end. As Gaby takes over the garage and tries to bury her grief, she reminds herself that this is the other reason she never wants her matches to find her.

If against all odds she somehow grew to love them, they'd just be more people to lose.

* * *

_**Before - Illya** _

* * *

Illya is a good communist. His parents are good communists. At least he thinks so, as a child. Before he learns otherwise.

As good communists, his parents never discuss the matched set of words on their palms, perfectly placed for the touch of a handshake. When Illya asks they tell him that the marks are just random pigmentation; meaningless. In the honest eyes of a child this is patently ridiculous, and he tells them so, but his parents don't waver. Good communists, they insist, don't discuss this.

But Illya is a curious child, so he finds someone else to ask. Old Agafya Mikhailovna, who putters about their dacha, cleaning and cooking with her storied hands, is happy to tell tales while he helps her pick blackberries from the bramble around the side of the porch, as his little hands grow stickysoursweet with purple juice. She speaks of the old times before the Revolution, when the church ruled people's lives and had centuries ago made a reluctant truce with the truly ancient gods of Rus, quietly folding them into the Christian holy books once they realized that the peasants would keep on worshipping their own gods anyways.

Her cracked leather voice rasps beautiful stories of true love, perfect, eternal, chosen by God Himself. Before the Bolsheviks banned Him. Before the Bolsheviks banned discussion of soulmarks, too deeply entwined with belief and superstition to have a place in a rational society.

The romance of it fits with what Illya sees in his parents. Or perhaps he just wants to believe so badly that he makes it fit. Either way, as far as he can tell his parents are in love, so that must be proof that the marks aren't meaningless. That soulmates are real.

* * *

At age ten, as Illya and his mother and sister prepare to flee the Nazi march on Moscow, he learns that his father isn't a good communist. Hasn't been one for a long, long time. He is taken away in the night, and even at age ten Illya knows that people who are taken away in the night do not often return.

* * *

When they return to Moscow, to the lofty flat on the Arbat which is in his mother's name, Illya tries to settle back into his normal life. But all of the boys at school know what his father has done, and he suffers taunts and beatings whenever the teachers' backs are turned. He tries to be good. Really, he does. But he's just _angry_ now. At his father for humiliating him and ruining his life. At his mother for, well, he doesn't even know what. For not stopping it, he supposes, though he knows that's not fair to her. Angry at himself for his own anger, which slumbers with one eye open within his chest and sometimes wakens to claw at the insides of his ribs, sending him into rages that terrify his mother and sister.

Perhaps even more so, he's angry at himself because all of this makes him want to cry, to sob and wail until maybe, just maybe, the red rage slips out from between his ribs and he stops frightening his family. But as his father was being dragged away he'd shouted to Illya that he needed to be strong, now that he was the man of the house. Illya didn't ask for this responsibility, doesn't want it, but he doesn't seem to have a choice in the matter. So apparently, though eleven feels awfully young for this, he is a man now.

And men don't cry.

* * *

After one too many rages Illya is sent away to military school. It only takes three days before his new classmates find out who his father is.

(Was? Illya doesn't even know.)

So the torment starts anew, and Illya copes the only way he can figure out. He works hard, gets good grades, and keeps out of trouble. He thinks he almost has things figured out when the words appear.

_I'm sure you understand humiliation, better than most_

This is the mark he finds first, though at a glance he mistakes the black patch curving around the very top of his left bicep for another bruise. The English letters feel alien on his skin. Their meaning seems obvious, though, even with his shaky command of the language. Humiliation is something that Illya does, indeed, understand better than most.

Tiny as it is, he takes a few moments to even see the second mark as he stares down at his arm. But his vision drifts a little lower, discovering another flash of black, this one in the crook of his left elbow.

_Fine_

A single word, nothing more. Both marks are faintly disappointing in their banality. There's nothing romantic or poetic here, not like Agafya Mikhailovna's stories.

And he can't hide them, not at an all-boys school, where everyone bunks together and showers together. It becomes one more excuse for torment from his classmates. The older boys make a game of sending him into rages, daring each other to harass him then ganging up and beating on him when he snaps.

Somehow, in the teachers' eyes, it's always Illya's fault. He seems to spend as much time in punishment as he does elsewhere, and even when he's free his classmates all shun him. The despair and loneliness drags him down so deep that everything hurts. He doesn't ever quite work up the nerve to try ending things but some days the idea of everything just _stopping_ tempts him just enough that he stops trusting himself alone around the shooting range.

Lying in his bunk one night, pressing some ice to his latest split lip, Illya thinks of his parents. Of how they were _before_ ; of the words on their skin and the boundless love between them. Even though his mother has started seeing other men he knows that she still loves her husband. Illya hears it in every letter she sends, filled with warm memories that make him ache for the lazy summer afternoons at the dacha, catching snippets, around the stumbling lyricism of his sister's violin practice, of his parents' loving murmurs to each other.

So Illya looks at his soulmarks and hopes. He needs this. He needs the belief that enduring the cruelties of his classmates will be worth it. His words may now be a burden, but someday he will find true love.

* * *

_**During** _

* * *

When Napoleon Solo strolls into a dingy chop shop in East Berlin it's been years since he considered his marks beyond how to keep them covered. He's not sure if the C.I.A. scheme sullied the marks for their intended people but it's easier if he believes that. Looking for his 'true love' was what got him into this damn mess; he'll never let anyone hold that kind of power over him again.

Or so he tells himself.

Which is why, when he goes to find 'Fraulein Schmidt', he feels no flare of nervous hope like he used to get when introducing himself in German. He's scratched that out of his psyche.

Or so he tells himself.

It's been a while since he helped his father alternately build up and take apart the beat-up Ford pickup which got him back and forth to school, but as he eyes the engine block under which Fraulein Teller is occupied he remembers enough to recognize that she's put in quite the upgrade. It's as good a conversation starter as anything else.

"Ich dachte mit der original zwei Liter Maschine waren sie untermotorisiert, aber das ist eine gute Verbesserung."

Napoleon pauses when he hears a dull thud followed by a metallic clang from under the car, as if she's dropped some tool first onto her face then onto the floor. But she says nothing so he continues.

"Klebe Flügel dran und du brauchst eine Startbahn," he quips, irked by the suspicion that his German isn't quite as sharp as it used to be. But oh well, close enough.

His words are met with complete silence.

A long silence.

An _oddly_ long silence.

Maybe his German is even rustier than he thought and she's trying to piece it together. While awaiting a response he ponders whether he'll have time to skip out for dinner once they've made it across. Or maybe they'll die trying. Napoleon can't rouse himself to much more than apathy about the outcome either way; he's just _tired_.

(Of the C.I.A., of life under its heel, of _life_ , he's not sure.)

She's still said nothing so Napoleon passes more time by fingering that lovely new engine upgrade, then, eyeing the grease on his hands, he leans down to pluck up the rag tucked into Teller's belt, careful out of courtesy not to touch her.

He's about to break the silence when, voice tight and breathless, she speaks.

"Ih–ihr Akzent ist...ziemlich gut für einen Amerikaner."

Time freezes.

_Ihr Akzent ist ziemlich gut für einen Amerikaner_

It shouldn't be so shocking to hear those words the second time around. But Napoleon almost laughs, hysteria bubbling in his throat; his heart is roaring and his mouth is too dry as he stares down at all he can see of her, stained overalls and ratty boots, as he realizes that it is, if anything, even _more_ shocking this time.

With a clatter of wheels, brown eyes wide as she gapes, Fraulein Teller slides into view.

(Gaby? Gaby. If they're soulmates he should probably call her by her first name and oh _God_ she's his soulmate and Napoleon thinks he's about to be sick.)

"You–you..." she stammers.

"Uh..." Not his most intelligent comment by a longshot but in fairness to him she's had several more seconds than he to recover from what feels like a cattle prod applied directly to his heart.

"You're...it's _you_ ," she manages, scrambling to her feet while eyeing him with what can only be described as 'panic'. Which, though unflattering, is oddly reassuring. The last time this happened to Napoleon the woman had gone from surprise to enthusiasm in a second, sweeping him along before he'd realized just how gullible he was being. Gaby looks about as far from enthusiasm as humanly possible.

"Yeah, it's...me." Which won't win any prizes for eloquence either but at least they're real words.

There's another pause then while they size each other up. Perhaps uncharitably, the first thing he thinks is that she's...kinda short. He'd noticed absently from her file that she was pretty but he finds that the grainy surveillance photos haven't done her justice; haven't captured the dark chocolate hue of her eyes, the elegant line of her neck. There's a smear of grease on her forehead where she must have, in fact, dropped her wrench, and Napoleon surprises himself by needing to bat down an urge to reach out and smooth it away with his thumb.

Her scrutiny is cautious, frantic. Which, he supposes, makes sense; he has the advantage of knowing her file, but she knows nothing of him.

"Um, hi," Napoleon adds, feeling like a schoolboy then kicking himself because he's only said three things to her so far, but that still has to be at least the second stupidest. He sways on his feet, uncertain whether to move or just stay rooted here for the rest of his life, but as he shifts she flinches away.

"Don't _touch_ me," she snaps, snatching the rag back from his hand by its very tip in an obvious bid to avoid contact.

"I wasn't–"

"Who are you and what do you want?"

* * *

Several long, tense minutes later, Gaby has been shot at, dragged a man behind her car, gotten said car wedged between two buildings before climbing into a second story window, and is now standing on some rooftop, blinded by the glare of searchlights and struggling to hear her own thoughts past the shrieking of klaxons and the zipping thunks of bullets hitting the trapdoor.

Oh, and she's found one of her soulmates, too. So that's a thing. One which she has chosen to deal with by ignoring it. Which is fine. She's fine. Everything's fine.

"Hug me," he tells her, making her shy away then scowl at herself. She can't quite explain why she's so reluctant to touch him; it's not as if she doesn't know where his first touch will land. But until it happens she can almost convince herself that this entire thing is some nightmarish trick.

There's no time to be hesitating. But despite the chaos he doesn't grab her and drag her closer like she's dreading. He just opens his arms, eyes pleading with her, inviting her into his space but giving her the final choice over their fate.

She steps up next to him, hyperaware of her hands, uncertain of where they'll land first but knowing that somehow this has been decided by the universe long ago; his hands, trying to figure out which one will finally settle, after all of these years, on her right hip.

There's no spark. No fireworks. If she didn't know it would be no different from any other touch. She fists her hand in the fabric of his suit jacket, somewhere around that ambiguous area where his front starts to become his side, and uses it to lever herself up. His stomach jumps as he sucks in a breath. Then, before she's ready, before she's had time to process, his hand cups her right hip, broad, strong. The sort of hand she would've trusted to lift her in ballet.

She wraps herself around his side and, despite every nerve screaming for her to turn back, she steps forward with him. Together they leap into the empty air.

* * *

"Now you report for duty tomorrow morning, nine a.m. sharp. And remember, 'obviously I was briefed about you'," Sanders sneers on his way out, never missing the opportunity to deploy his own personal dog whistle against Napoleon.

Napoleon smiles, nods, and fantasizes about more ways to murder Sanders, his heart only half in it. He'd do anything to get Sanders and his goons to just _leave_ so he can have a moment alone to figure out how the hell to put as much distance as possible between himself and Teller. Once Sanders finally slinks off Napoleon presses his head to the musty wallpaper, sucks in a rattling lungful of air, and fails to come up with any scenario which doesn't involve him walking back into that kitchen.

When he runs out of excuses to stay away he returns to the kitchen, greeted by a glare, Gaby worrying her lip like she's trying to talk herself into saying something. Or maybe talk herself out of it. Coward as he is, he still can't work up the nerve to confront her and instead begins washing the dishes, kicking himself the whole time.

"I want to see it."

He glances over his shoulder to find her rounding the table, jaw set, voice almost too firm. Like she was worried it would waver and overcompensated.

Napoleon goes still. "No."

"No?"

"You already know. We said the words, did the whole–" Napoleon gestures vaguely towards her right side, where he remembers holding her, "–thing. So what does it matter?"

Gaby gives him a pinched look. "Are you se–? It matters because...because...I need..." The frustration in her voice starts to bleed into desperation and his resolve crumbles. He remembers what it felt like the first time, when he'd thought it was real.

Napoleon turns away. "One look," he grits out, yanking his apron off before fumbling with his waistcoat. "And you can't say anything about it."

When he faces her again Gaby is looking at him strangely. "Why would I say...? Fine, whatever," she vows with a roll of her eyes.

He stares down at her. She glares up at him. He knows he should unbutton his shirt but his stomach is roiling with nerves, dreading what he's about to show her. Then Gaby makes an impatient growl and reaches forward, lithe fingers pawing at his throat, loosening three shirt buttons before he gets the wherewithal to bat her hands away.

"It's not even up there," he snaps, shoulders hunching, but Gaby isn't listening. Instead she's staring at his chest, lips hanging open slightly.

His _other_ mark. He'd almost forgotten.

"You've got two...too?" she breathes, expression doing some odd flicker of emotion as her eyes go wide. It shakes him out of his defensiveness; she's trying to figure this shit out, just the same as him, but she hasn't done this before.

"Yeah. So do you?"

She nods, rising up on her toes to pull the collar of his shirt back.

"'Corrupt and criminal'?" she quotes. "This has to be the same person as mine. Rude."

This provokes a strangled bark of mirth from Napoleon. "Yeah, whoever this is, they must be a real piece of work. What's yours say?"

Gaby bites her lip, hand wandering to the crook of her left elbow. "You can't laugh."

"You still can't say anything about mine."

A crisp nod is Gaby's indication that she considers that a fair deal. She goes to the sink, wetting a washcloth to scrub at her arm until she steps back into his space, tilting her arm up for him to read.

"'My woman'?" Napoleon recites. "Wow, you're right. Rude."

Gaby huffs, amusement toying with the corners of her lips. "Told you." Despite the absurd circumstances she's got this snarky half-grin on, which really should not be working for Napoleon as well as it is. He shakes his head, making himself glance away, trying to remind himself of all the reasons why this is a terrible situation. When he looks at her again Gaby raises an eyebrow with a significant nod towards his stomach. Right.

Napoleon takes a steadying breath. "Not a word," he reminds her as he grasps his shirt. Gaby nods again. No going back. Gritting his teeth, he frees the bottom of his shirt, unable to meet her gaze as he unveils himself.

Gaby takes a sharp breath.

Napoleon closes his eyes. Even now, years later, he hates looking at what's left of the mark on his stomach; can barely stand the sight of it without his gut turning over in loathing.

Something brushes him; warm, small digits right on the words. It doesn't hurt, not anymore, but he hadn't expected her to be brave enough to touch his mangled skin so the shock makes him hiss and jerk away.

"What _ha–?_ " Gaby breathes with faint horror.

Napoleon yanks his shirt down, wrestling with a burst of irrational anger at her reaction. He'd known she wouldn't take it well but fuck, that still hurts. "You said you wouldn't say anything."

"I wasn't...Are you–?"

"Don't," he bites out, circling away and clawing a hand through his hair. There's a pause filled only by the harsh, half-panicked panting of his breath. When he loops back towards her she's staring at him, brows all bunched up, expression stunning him into stillness. He hadn't expected _her_ to look just as hurt as he feels. He sighs. "Look, it's not...don't take it personally," he offers, still pissed off but trying very hard not to be. "It's not you. I just...I couldn't..."

Gaby just keeps staring at him. Then she shakes her head, turning to the counter, her hands white-knuckled around the lip of the sink. Somehow, in the stiff set of her posture, he knows that she's reaching a decision. She faces him again for a long beat of scrutiny. Two. Then she tugs the right side of her shirt up, pushing down on the high waist of her trousers until a scrawl of charcoal black emerges, soaring over the vaulted arch of her hip. Napoleon stops breathing.

His words. The _real_ thing. His last shred of doubt, one he didn't even know he still had, vanishes. Needing to read it he drops to his knees before her, stilling his trembling hands against his own thighs.

_Ich dachte mit der original zwei Liter Maschine waren sie untermotorisiert, aber das ist eine gute Verbesserung_

He doesn't even remember exactly what he said to her But this must be it. He battles an overwhelming desire to reach out, craving the realness of touch even though he knows there would be nothing to feel. But he doesn't ask and she doesn't offer.

When he finally drags his eyes away, looking up, up, up, his gaze is returned, her expression now unreadable. She looks away first, releasing both a huff and the hem of her shirt, her mark disappearing from view. Seeming to need space after so much closeness she walks to the other end of the tiny room, eyeing the grimy window with a faint noise of distaste.

"This doesn't change anything. I help you find my father then I'm free to go. And we're done."

Well then. Right to the point. It's not like he'd expected her to go all doe-eyed, she doesn't seem the type, but he'd thought... It doesn't matter. They'll both get what they want: never having to see the other again.

"Of course," he answers.

Gaby turns, blinking at him as if his agreement was somehow not the response she'd expected. "Right. Good."

* * *

Lying in bed that night, Napoleon doesn't sleep a wink.

Neither does Gaby. Only part of that is waiting for the flat to fall silent so she can contact Waverly.

* * *

Even before they ever meet Illya dislikes Napoleon Solo. He represents everything Illya loathes about America. Too much selfishness and corruption obscured by a varnish of charm. So when Illya finally sees the man in person it's easy to lunge for him, and almost pleasing when he fights back. This will be fun.

(Roughly ten minutes later both of them will think back to this moment, reeling, attempting to recall their first touches. Illya thinks he grabbed the American by the front of the shirt, perhaps? Blindsided as Napoleon was, he doesn't even know.)

But Illya's handler has some use for this American so Illya is forced to let him go. Worse still, they'll be working together. Stuck with this failed thief. Barely a real spy. This nothing of a man. So once they're alone together Illya glares across the table. Somehow every detail of Solo's personal habit irritates him, from the gold signet ring to the coiffed hair; trappings of a vain man. Illya allows himself a warm burst of smugness as he prepares for the visceral pleasure of humiliating a rival.

"Obviously I was briefed about you, your corrupt and criminal background. Until you were caught..."

As Illya begins to speak Solo's entire posture switches in an instant from indifference to wary attention, his icy eyes widening slightly. Good. Let him be afraid. Yet by the time Illya has finished picking him apart Solo has recovered, shooting a look at Illya which makes his confidence waver. Solo doesn't look like a man humiliated. He looks like a snake about to strike.

Solo lets a silence hum between them. Takes a slow sip of coffee then fusses with the precise placement of his cup on the saucer for a needless, clattering second. Then those eyes flash back up, fixing Illya with an odd expression he can't quite read. Solo's gaze drops away and, even more strangely, he shakes his head with a rueful snort.

Illya frowns in confusion. He has just exposed this American's greatest shames; Solo should not be acting like _he_ is the one with all the power here.

Solo stares at him again, eyes narrowing. Despite himself, Illya shifts in his chair. Solo's smirk sharpens right before he slides into a lazy drawl.

"I'm sure you understand humiliation, better than most."

Illya's world starts to go red. So many years of waiting, hoping, and it's _him_? He thinks he manages a response to the words which have been a touchstone of his life, 'oh, really?' or something similar, but Solo keeps talking and talking and talking, too many words darting by too quickly for Illya to catch as he grapples with the seething rage that's rousing in his chest.

It's all _wrong_. Solo doesn't treat this like the beautiful, precious thing it should be. Instead, with a savage glint in his steel eyes, Solo makes a mockery of Illya's most sacred dreams, eviscerating them with ruthless, surgical cynicism.

Illya loses the fight against his rage. Flips the table. Yet Solo just keeps smirking, coif still perfect, with a sort of gleeful hatred that makes Illya want to kill him.

This is not how Illya imagined he'd meet one of his soulmates.

* * *

"My woman would never wear anything like that."

In this moment Gaby curses the universe all over again. She stares up, up, hating the Russian for his height, hating everything about him and this entire situation. Then she has to look down; there's too bloody much of him to see in one go. His arms shift, bunched up tight behind his back, but he offers no further reaction.

Behind her she hears Solo take a breath which starts as a gasp and ends as a sigh.

She opens her mouth to berate the Russian or perhaps to _scream_ at the unfairness of it all but then she pauses. He's glowering down at her, a thin varnish of civility barely concealing his irritation, but there's no recognition in his expression. He doesn't know.

Even the second time it's a bizarre sensation, knowing that whatever she's about to say is somehow already written on his skin and has been for years. The spite of saying something absurd tempts her. But she still doesn't want to admit that the man who was shooting at her and tearing her car apart with his bare hands just last night could be anything to her, let alone someone she's stuck with for life. And she's certainly not willing to give up the one advantage she has over him.

"What's _he_ doing here?" she demands instead of Solo, hating herself for the quaver in her voice.

"Told you, we're teaming up with the Russians. Doesn't get any more Russian than the Red Peril here."

Solo meets her gaze when she whips around but there's something about the thin line of his mouth, the tense set of his brow, that makes her realize that he knows. Not just that, he _knew_. And he didn't tell her.

"And why did he call me his woman?" she grits out, keeping her back to the Russian as she stares Solo down, needing absolute certainty that this isn't some unspeakably cruel trick. That he hasn't set her up.

But it's not Solo who answers. It's...him.

"Because I am now your fiancé."

She does another about face to the Russian, who greets her with a paralytic contortion of his mouth which seems to be intended as a smile. This, too, she hates him for. There's no way she's giving him any words now. No. No, no, no, no. No.

Besides, there's an American she needs to interrogate.

* * *

While Solo trails after Teller Illya flicks through the clothing rack with growing dismay. As annoyed as he is with the entire mission he isn't cruel enough to let her step out in Rome like _that_.

She's shouting at Solo out on the sidewalk. More out of habit than genuine interest Illya tries to listen but he can't make out the words, just the furious, frantic pitch of her voice. He doesn't really care. Personal problems between those two are unlikely to have any bearing on his mission, though he has no clue how they've managed to acquire personal problems in the one day, not even, that they've known each other. Probably Solo's fault; the man seems designed to annoy.

The shop's bell clangs as Teller stomps back in, her demeanour stormy enough that Illya is surprised when Solo strolls in after her without any obvious injuries.

"You still should have _told_ me," she snarls under her breath at Solo, continuing to stomp towards the changing rooms. Solo opens his mouth to her departing back but then just lets out a harried sigh and massages his forehead.

Then Illya has to educate him on fashion, since he's being absurd. Teller returns at a perfect moment to illustrate Illya's points in that lovely salmon-striped shift dress. Though the hat might be a bit much. Illya will have to think on that. Yet neither of them seem remotely appreciative. Solo is silent for once, Teller now grumbling to the room about the price of the handbag. Philistines.

Though Teller will barely deign to look at Illya her eyes follow Solo as he departs and she worries her lower lip, like she wants desperately to call him back. It drives a little sliver of irritation into Illya. He's not unused to women being wary around him due to his size, but Solo is no small man himself, yet he has obviously done something to earn her trust, which rankles more than it should. Solo can't be trustworthy. He's a criminal.

(Solo is also his _soulmate_ , Illya supposes, but he can't bring himself to think of the man that way.)

Illya doesn't think twice about walking up to Teller, even as she backs away from him, which only serves to irritate him further. He knows he's probably glowering at her and pushing too fast, but still, she'll have to get used to him soon since they're meant to play at being engaged, so he doesn't hesitate either when reaching for her arm.

Teller jolts like he's touched her with a live wire, her face contorting in alarm. This finally snaps Illya out of his annoyance, making him hesitate for the first time. He doesn't think he's grabbed her too hard, he's barely touched her, but he still loosens his grip, encouraging her to pivot for his critical eye.

Her hand is tiny when he takes it to press the ring into her palm, and her skin incongruously soft for a mechanic. But when he looks up to her face there's nothing soft there. She sets her jaw, drags a hissing breath in through her nose, and nails him with a look of pure vitriol.

"Now we are engaged," he simpers, laying on the sarcasm a bit thick but trying to mask his hurt at her unexplained scorn. "Congratulations."

She yanks her hand away like he's scalded her. He grits his teeth and turns to pay the clerks, half watching Teller as she pulls out the price tag from another ugly Patou dress and her eyes bulge when she reads. Her naïveté irritates Illya, too, somehow. Heat rises up his neck as he remembers watching the morning bread-lines stretch around city blocks from the comfort of his mother's flat. They always had enough to feed and clothe Illya's ever-growing body, to keep his sister in violin lessons. Yet having read Teller's files, Illya realizes with a start that her current ensemble which he'd pulled without regard to cost, all Western-made, would be not just an eye-watering sum to her but, in any practical sense, a luxury she could never attain.

When the clerk tells Illya the total he can _feel_ Teller's incredulous gaze, crawling around between his shoulders and making him want to sink down into his turtleneck in shame. With a scowl at himself he pays then goes to collect her, telling her they have a plane to catch. And even then, she glares but her mouth stays shut.

"Why don't you speak? I know you can."

She still says nothing.

"You'll have to speak to me eventually. Will be very strange if you don't speak to your fiancé," Illya reasons, irritated when this is met with another petulant silence. "This is very childish," he grumbles, going for the door. "If you won't speak, I won't be able to help you. So if you want to be sent back behind the wall, fine, stay quiet."

Teller flinches, panic flitting across her face. Then her eyes narrow.

"Fine," she spits, all venom.

The single word on Illya's arm is common enough that this has happened to him before. Still, it makes his heart do a nervous lurch. He stares down as Teller slips past him, pressing up against the far side of the door frame in an obvious bid to stay as far away from him as possible.

"Are we–?"

"Hurry up, you said we have a plane to catch." She's back to not even looking at him.

Well...

Fine.

* * *

That evening Gaby finds herself standing in the lift of some luxury hotel in Rome and she still wants to scream at the unfairness of it all. The Russian, or 'Illya' as she must now call him, hasn't been discourteous, but he's done little to hide his annoyance at this mission.

If he only knew the _half_ of it. She hasn't told Waverly of her unexpected complication and has no plans to. Ever. Kuryakin doesn't know either. Solo does, making her and him the only two who know the full shape of things, which suits Gaby just fine at this point since he seems equally unwilling to talk about it.

When the lift reaches the lobby Illya cocks out his left arm, shooting an expectant glance at her. Gaby stares at his arm, suddenly picturing the word 'Fine' on his skin, paralyzed by the image. But Illya makes a peevish noise, thrusting his arm more pointedly in her direction, not allowing her any more room for hesitation.

She curls one hand into the crook of his elbow. He goes still at her side. She can hear him opening his mouth to form a question but she drags him out of the lift before he gives it voice.

It's done now. She's fulfilled the prophecy. No escape.

As they walk through the lobby Solo catches her gaze, something questioning in his expression. She shrugs, attempts a smile that probably comes out more grimace, but there's nothing else for it now. Illya grumbles under his breath that they're not supposed to know each other so _stop staring_ , then mutters something in Russian, his tone dour enough for her to guess at some unflattering remark about herself or Solo.

Gaby grits her teeth and claws her nails into his arm. It's not as satisfying as she'd hoped.

* * *

Two days later Gaby curls up in bed to phone Waverly. Gets her new orders. Orders to betray them.

"I think you know what you have to do, Miss Teller."

She does. But she remembers the awe, near reverence on Solo's face when he was kneeling at her feet reading the words, _his_ words, on her skin. She pictures Illya above her, refusing to dance and refusing to smile and failing a bit at both, then below her, solid and warm between her thighs.

"Sir, I..."

"Is there something else?"

Gaby looks down at her elbow, her hip. She bites her lip for a moment.

"No sir, nothing else."

The mission comes first.

* * *

"Kill the Russian, if necessary."

"Ubei Amerikantsa, yesli neobkhodimo."

Two pairs of blue eyes flick across the cabin of the helicopter. Neither can hold the other's gaze. Both have obeyed such orders in the past. Both know, despite the words on their skin, that the other will obey his orders now. Neither is certain whether he can obey his own orders.

But the mission comes first.

* * *

While Illya leans against the side of the helicopter, his head aching from striking a rock on his way down the hillside, he worries. Not for himself. Gaby hasn't so much as looked at him since he'd helped her to her feet after cradling her in his arms. She's not looking at anyone, not even the medic who comes to ask her questions. Illya keeps stealing glances at her and catches Solo doing the same, so they end up locking eyes over her head in a moment of shared concern. He may not know Gaby well, and is now aware that even their short time together has been coloured by deceit, but the Gaby he has come to know is many intriguing, maddening things, but she's not this quiet.

The medic departs. Gaby makes no reaction. Then the three of them are alone together for the first time since everything unravelled, and suddenly Illya doesn't know what to say. He hopes that Solo will break the silence, but he seems preoccupied fussing with the wound on his forehead. Gaby's hands start plucking restlessly at the yellow blanket draped over her small frame.

"My..." she suddenly says, gaze still locked downwards. "My father. Where is he?"

Illya freezes, seeing Solo, in his peripheral vision, do the same. Alexander must not have told her. In his panic to find an answer Illya makes a fatal mistake: the pause which follows Gaby's question is far too long. She glances up, first to Solo, then Illya, still fidgeting with the blanket.

"He..." Illya begins to say, unable to face her upturned gaze, seeking out Solo for help.

"They–" Solo starts.

"They killed him, didn't they?" Gaby cuts in, abrupt, as if trying to head off the shock of hearing it by instead saying it herself.

"I'm so sorry," Solo murmurs.

Gaby sucks in a wavering breath, head dropping. Illya can't see her expression from this angle but he can see her biting her lip, hard enough to turn the tender flesh ghostly white. He glances to Solo again. The American's gaze is fixed on Gaby, eyes tight around the corners. After a moment he senses Illya's scrutiny, eyebrows tipping up, jerking his head towards Gaby with an expectant look. After a second of confused staring Illya comprehends the wordless suggestion. Ever so slowly, giving her time to object, Illya sets a hand on her shoulder.

Gaby stiffens. But just as Illya is about to retreat her shoulder relaxes, enough that he lets his hand curl over it. Maybe he imagines it but for a second he thinks she leans into him.

Illya finds himself glancing further down. There's nothing to see, covered as she is by the blanket, but when he'd been cradling her in the mud and the rain he'd thought he'd seen something in the crook of her arm, a flinty smudge which hadn't been there before, with a rivulet of pink running through it, almost like concealer washing away. And Illya wonders...

But then the Englishman, Mr Waverly, strolls up to them and cheerfully proclaims that they've got the wrong warhead. The mission comes first.

* * *

_So, this is it,_ is the first thing Napoleon thinks as Illya's silence in his hotel room drags from reticent into improbable. As he locks eyes with Napoleon and startles, ever so slightly, before his gaze flits away.

The second thing he thinks is, _Peril has to be the worst damn spy I've ever seen._

There's an old wives tale that's thrumming through Napoleon's head that soulmates feel each other's pain. It can't be true. He'd never really believed it to begin with and surely when Peril was sinking into the cold sea as he drowned, when Gaby was bloodied, bruised, and fighting for her life on that hillside, he would have felt something.

Though he wonders if anyone's ever tested the effects of killing their own soulmate.

"You feeling okay?" he suddenly finds himself asking, turning towards Illya now. And Christ, Illya looks half dead. Like somewhere on the way up here he lost some deep, core piece of himself and he's wandering around in a daze, still unable to find it. Napoleon can't keep looking. He ducks away again. Then he has his third thought.

_I don't know if I can do this._

Even as he thinks it he pulls out his pistol, testing its familiar weight in his hand. Somehow he's still talking. About politics of all things. He hates the sound of his own voice, hates how steady it sounds. Remorseless. But that fits with what he is, doesn’t it? A criminal. A whore who lures people into bed then turns over all their private shames so their lives can be destroyed by the C.I.A.

He wishes he could say that his hand was moved by compassion, by mercy, or even by the words that mark his skin. But like all of his great decisions it's a selfish one. If he were to assassinate Illya now there would truly be nothing else left of him; his last bit of will subsumed by his servitude under the government's dirty heel. He's given them so much of himself already. He won't give them this.

"I almost forgot. I've got something for you."

* * *

As he stares down on the streets of Rome, head ringing with Waverly's words of a new team, Napoleon thinks back to the moment he let Illya live.

He wonders if Illya really could have done it. He doesn't think he'll ever know the full truth, even if he asks. Either way, his one certainty is that Illya's thoughts would not have been selfish. Not like his own.

He almost wonders if Gaby could have done it either but then he remembers that she already had this decision placed before her and, though she didn't have to see his face when she sent him to his death, she made her choice. He can speculate even less on her reasoning but he suspects that the shape of her thoughts curved far closer to his self-interest than Illya's nobility.

Unable to puzzle it out any further, Napoleon shakes his head, keeping his back turned to his new partners, though he's not entirely sure whether he should trust them with that.

* * *

_**After** _

* * *

Istanbul is too hot for Illya. Even as summer slips towards fall the humidity is unbearable, the streets overstuffed with tourists. And with their mission stalled while they await a flighty contact, Illya is miserable.

His partners aren't miserable. Indeed, Gaby and Solo seem to be enjoying themselves, flitting in and out of the hotel ceaselessly, sometimes together though often not. Illya has been spending much of his free time in his room, scowling at his receiver, tracking the two green dots who have somehow become his to mind, while he considers what happened in Rome.

If there's one thing he can't abide it's uncertainty. That's why he likes chess. Even at its most eccentric, the quixotic ramblings of its knights, every element can be foreseen, the only limitation being the combatants' abilities to read the board.

Illya had thought he'd read them so well. Solo, the conniving flirt, Gaby, fiery but guileless. Yet, as was made inescapable by Solo's unexpected depth and Gaby's unexpected betrayal, neither is what they first seemed. Though at least with Solo he knows where they stand. The man might be maddening but Illya knows their words mark each other's skin. With Gaby he doesn't know and so finds himself whirling between near certainty and complete doubt, so confused that whenever they're together he's jittery, unsettled from whatever confidence he had with her back in Rome. He simply can't figure out what to do with her, can't even really figure out how much of what happened in Rome was real, how much was something she wanted him to believe.

"What's got you thinking so hard, Peril?"

Illya jolts at the overly cheerful query, then frowns at himself for allowing himself to be surprised. "Nothing."

He spares one last peek at the tracker, finds Solo’s tracker placing him where expected, Gaby's dot blinking green, not even a kilometre distant, steadily moving along what Illya knows to be a little street market. She's fine.

"She'll be back," Solo says while pouring himself into the chaise longue, every line of his body exuding nonchalance. Illya's mouth tightens into a deeper scowl, both in response to the sheer decadence of Solo's entire being and, perhaps more so, his uncanny reading of Illya's preoccupation.

"How did you get in my room?" Illya demands. "Door was lo–"

At Solo's bemused smirk Illya realizes what a foolish question that was.

"Yeah, exactly," Solo drawls. "Now, while we're waiting for a certain someone to return, Waverly sent over more paperwork from Rome." He toes a stack of papers which have newly appeared on Illya's coffee table. "Shall we?"

* * *

Gaby returns sooner than Illya expected, letting herself into his room without so much as a knock. Do neither of them understand the concept of boundaries? As he's getting annoyed over that she greets them then comes to stand in the middle of the room, gazing around, her lower lip disappearing between her teeth. Illya glances up, staring at her, uncertain if she intends to sit next to him or Solo, uncertain how to feel about either possibility, but by the time he's processed this much she gives him a puzzled look and goes over to Solo, waiting for him to move his feet so she can claim the end of the chaise longue, even though there's ample free space on the couch next to Illya. Apart from a teasing eye-roll Solo doesn't hesitate to indulge her wordless demand, which somehow only fuels the sulk Illya is cultivating.

"Welcome back. Here." Solo divides the stack of files on his lap, passing some to Gaby before his eyes dive back to his current file.

"Two years of no paperwork and now Waverly can't give me enough," Gaby grumbles as she takes the folders. She casts around for a pen, eyes landing on Illya. "Why are you so cross?" she demands, seemingly more irritated with him than interested in a genuine response, glancing away again before he can answer to pluck Solo's spare ballpoint from his breast pocket. The thievery only earns her a bemused rebuke.

"I'm not." Even he can hear the annoyance in his own insistence and that, too, annoys him. Gaby just rolls her eyes, nose already buried in a file.

His gaze drops to the crook of her arm even though he knows there will be nothing to see, either because there really is nothing or she wants him to think so. He has no idea what he wants to be the truth. As he attempts to grapple with his confused feelings, she catches his gaze, eyes turning sharp.

"I didn't come here so you could stare at me," she snaps.

Illya's jaw clenches. Ever since they arrived here she's been distant with him, even harsh, preferring Solo's company on the rare occasion she grows tired of isolating herself from both of them. It stings more than it should. He knows that his own presence was not something she could avoid in Rome, but surely he hadn't been so odious as to deserve such shunning. But it shouldn't matter anyways. Illya doesn't _want_ either of them to matter. Not her and certainly not Solo.

There's a headache building behind his right eye. He tries to blame the tortured English of this administrative paperwork and mostly succeeds. Just as he's reviewing some expense claims, successfully ignoring his partners and glad for it, Illya pauses at the sound of Solo's voice.

"Gaby?"

At first glance, nothing about Gaby's demeanour stands out. But after a moment Illya realizes she's not just reading, she's gone preternaturally still, her hands clenched around the open manilla folder in a deathgrip.

"Ga–"

She startles at Solo's repetition of her name, snapping the file shut and staring at its cover. Setting it on the table, she all but bolts out of Illya's room. After the door slams Illya, faintly stunned, grabs the folder to flip open. He makes it about as far as 'Dr Teller appears to have been shot in the forehead at point-blank range, based on gunpowder residue and burns to the skin. The exit wound shows signs of–' before he can't keep reading. At Solo's expectant gaze he tosses over the file.

"Fuck," Solo mutters after his own perusal. "I didn't know that would be... _fuck_."

That, Illya thinks, pretty much sums things up.

* * *

All offers for company are refused with a muttered 'go _away_ ' through Gaby's hotel room door. Defeated, Illya wanders back up to his own room and wades back into paperwork with Solo, not expecting to see Gaby again for the rest of the day.

So it's a total surprise when, as he and Solo are heading out for an evening stroll, the elevator door opens to Gaby staring at them from the hall. Then Illya just gapes at the sight of her in a bright blue dress, the hemline daring enough that his face goes hot before he yanks his eyes back up. Bold plastic earrings, cherry-red lips, raven-wing eyeliner, all applied with skill but too gauche, uncannily resembling the stylings of a teenage girl who's tried to make herself look mature enough to get into the good clubs. On Gaby, though, it somehow has the wrong effect; she looks young. Painfully so.

It's such an odd image when he'd expected her to be grieving that he ends up just blinking at her. They're all so stunned the elevator door begins closing. Illya sticks out a hand to catch it, watching as Gaby strides in, not so much as a hello, stands before them and turns her back.

"So, where are you going?" Solo, carefully casual, asks the back of her head as the elevator resumes its downwards trip

"Out."

Illya glances at Solo. Solo glances back. Shrugs.

"Where?" Illya asks, trying to keep the growing alarm out of his voice.

"Dancing."

"Dancing? Dancing _where_?" he asks, failing to keep the growing alarm out of his voice.

"I don't know," she tells him, each word very precisely enunciated as if it requires a concerted effort not to shout them.

"Gaby..." Solo sighs.

" _What?_ " she growls, finally deigning to glare at them. "We're not working. We've nothing to do tonight anyways. And how is where I go any of your business? You're not my fa–"

Everyone winces. As Gaby turns away Illya catches a muttered German invective.

"Never said I was," Solo replies after a brief pause, unruffled in a way that Illya both admires and dislikes him for. "Want some company?"

Back still to them, Gaby just scoffs.

"Hey, come on, don't be like that. We're up for it. Right, Peril?"

"Um, right. Yes. We are...up for it," Illya stammers, definitely _not_ feeling up for it.

 _Smooth_ , Solo mouths at him behind Gaby's back, eyebrows slanted in a particularly mocking angle. Illya fantasizes about ripping those eyebrows off his insufferable, too-handsome face.

"Really? You two?" Gaby pivots again to squint at them. Then she jerks her head towards Illya. "Have you _seen_ him dance?"

"Okay, maybe Peril is more the strong, silent, stationary type. But you haven't seen my moves yet, missy. C'mon, it'll be fun"

In retrospect, Illya really should have been more wary of those last words. From either of his partners, that can only mean trouble.

* * *

"Come dance, Illya. You can't sit there all night."

The way Gaby is grinning down at Illya makes all the hairs on his neck stand to attention. Gone is the stony mask that's been all she's allowed him to see since they arrived in Istanbul. In its place is something reminiscent of how she once gazed up at him as she stumbled and twirled in her pajamas. But this version of that expression is raw, hungry, downright wolfish.

Once again Illya is struck by how spectacularly, almost absurdly he underestimated her in Rome. She was never a naïf, a little girl lost in the woods of her father's poor choices. She's gleaming, sharp, and he's now certain that she could be the very death of him if he let her.

Worse still, if she keeps smiling at him like that he isn't entirely confident he _wouldn't_ let her.

"No, thank you," he answers, stiff, needing to half shout over the din of the nightclub.

"Come on, it'll be fun." Snagging one of his hands in both of hers, she tugs him, tempts him, while putting on a very convincing pout, a little too similar to what she'd done in Rome for Illya to trust her sincerity.

"Go back to Cowboy. He's fun." Being so tall has its advantages but it makes Illya miserably conspicuous on any dance floor. So he hunches down into his own shoulders and shoots Gaby a dour look until she gives up.

Once she's snaked back through the crowd to Solo she sets a hand on his arm while giving his current dance partner a glare so withering that the other woman immediately turns tail, leaving Solo to grin down at Gaby, seemingly unperturbed by her show of possession. Then their hands are on each other, his finding her waist, hers ascending the slope of his shoulders, both leaning closer as she stretches up on her toes to say something in his ear which provokes a burst of laughter from him.

Illya should be checking the exits, surveying the crowd, yet his attention keeps being pulled back to them. Twirling, stepping in perfect tandem except for some miscommunicated turn which ends with Gaby bouncing off Solo's chest, they move beautifully together, even as she stumbles into him and he catches her around the ribs with another laugh, both grinning, radiant.

Illya's stomach is hot, too tight. He refuses to name the sensation, but a lick of shame crawls up his neck nevertheless. He doesn't know how to feel about any of this, just that he's feeling a lot of whatever this is.

* * *

By the time Solo slides back into the next chair over Illya's headache has returned. The club is too noisy and too warm and too everything. Solo snatches the beer Illya has been nursing more to blend in than out of any desire to drink, helping himself without preamble and making irritation prickle at Illya again.

"Where's Gaby?" he demands. "You're supposed to be watching her."

Solo licks his lips. They look like very nice lips; soft. Illya yanks his gaze away with a scowl.

"She's fine. Found some new friends. See?" With the neck of the bottle Solo indicates a sapphire flash in the crowd which is, indeed, Gaby dancing with a throng of women. "Besides, she'd kill us both if she thought we were keeping an eye on her."

"Maybe, but she's very..." Illya stops, eyeing her again. As the night has progressed and Gaby's number of shots downed has increased a manic quality has begun to filter into her dancing, like she's forcing herself to enjoy it, which is starting to worry Illya. "One of us should look out for her," he finishes a bit limply.

"Y'know, I never said I wasn't looking out for her." Solo takes another sip of beer, his eyes fixed on Gaby with a keen focus that sits strangely on his otherwise nonchalant mien. "Just that she'd kill us if she knew. Don't worry, Peril. As I recall, I did fine watching out for both of you in Rome."

Recognizing the boast for what it is—an attempt to bait him into a squabble, and a lazy attempt at that—Illya just scoffs.

"Besides," Solo continues, "we'd better get used to this, you and I."

"Sitting in the corners of bars and arguing?"

"Sitting in the corners of bars watching her captivate every man in the building." Pausing for a moment, Solo seems to think, then smirks. "Actually, she'd do just fine with a lot of the women, too, I bet."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" Illya grasps the implication but isn't certain how Solo intends it; compliment, slur, or something else.

Solo appears to debate making some innuendo, which would no doubt be at Illya's expense, but then he just shrugs, scrutinizing the label of his beer. "She's a pretty young thing," he says, his tone careful.

"I know," Illya snaps. Of course he does. But this is the first time he's witnessed Solo be any less than assiduously platonic towards her, the first time Illya has had to confront the possibility that Gaby's quiet crush on Solo may not be unreciprocated. Another hot, uncomfortable feeling bursts through Illya's chest, but after a moment he realizes that this time it's _Solo_ he feels this over. Solo who is marked for _him_. Yet everything is so uncertain. Illya is marked for two himself. One of those two may even be Gaby. It's entirely possible that Solo and Gaby are marked for each other. Suddenly, this final uncertainty is one too many. So Illya clenches his jaw and decides to take the knees out from the main thing that's been bothering him.

"I know you and I are..." Illya trails off in search of a phrase Solo won't mock.

" _Soulmates?_ " Solo mocks.

Illya's teeth grind together. "Yes, that. But is she...?"

Solo shrugs again. "Would be pretty strange if you and I were matches and you and she were matches but not me and her. Then again, not like there's any logic in this bullshit anyways, but still."

The way Solo speaks is infuriating sometimes, tangled mazes of English grammar within which Illya becomes so easily lost. Taking a few seconds he attempts to break Solo's words down into smaller steps, retracing his path to make sure he's got to the true centre of it.

"So, she and I are matches," Illya tries carefully.

Solo blinks. His eyebrows drop into a squint, which he turns on Illya. "What? I mean, yeah, of course, but I thought you were asking about me and her."

"You are too? Then why haven't y—"

"Hang on, back up. You didn't know? This whole time? That the two of you are...?"

Illya hates the flush he can feel creeping up his neck. "No," he grunts.

"What do you mean you didn't know? How could you not know?"

"How did _you_ know?"

"Apart from that thing when she said the words that have been stuck on my skin for the past twenty odd years? Christ," Solo interrupts himself to swear, "that makes me feel old."

"It's not so obvious for me. It's just one word. It's happened before and it wasn't...I wasn't certain. I thought maybe but I didn't know."

"Okay, fine, but what you said to her is pretty unforgettable. Sight of that is a dead giveaway."

It takes Illya a second to realize what Solo's words imply. Then it takes him another to recover from the shock of that.

"You've _seen_ her marks?"

"Uh..." It might be the first time Illya has ever seen Solo genuinely wrong-footed. "Um, yeah," Solo mutters, very conspicuously not meeting his stare. "I didn't realize she hadn't shown...Hell, I didn't even realize that you didn't know."

"When?"

Solo swallows. Glances at Illya from the corner of his eye like a dog that's pissed on the good rug and knows it. "Berlin. That first night."

For the first time all night Illya knows exactly what he's feeling: jealousy.

"Look, Illya," Solo says, the use of Illya's proper name rare enough to jar him out of his emotions, "it was different, she and I. We had a chance to figure some stuff out. You weren't..." He falls silent, mouth twisting. "Give her time. We all know that you two didn't have the best introduction. But you'll get there."

"Not if she keeps avoiding me. Has barely looked at me since Rome."

Solo frowns for a moment. Then, inexplicable, he chuckles, shaking his head as Illya contemplates wringing his neck.

"Hasn't looked at you? Jesus, Peril, I thought you were supposed to be observant." At Illya's glare Solo gestures to Gaby with another soft laugh. "I'm not the one she's been begging to dance with her all night. But every time she gets close you keep staring at her like she's a damn puzzle you're trying to crack instead of treating her like a human being."

"But in Rome she—"

"Rome wasn't real. Forget about that. Just get to know her now."

Rome felt real to Illya. At least it had at the beginning, before Gaby's duplicity swiftly cut through his illusions, so soon after Solo, too, had ruthlessly dispensed with the hopes he'd spent so many years quietly nursing. Pondering this makes something in him seethe, which is quickly doused with a wave of dull loss. His fantasies seem so childish now. But they'd been _his_. And Gaby and Solo don't even seem aware of what they've snuffed out, teasing him for being grumpy instead of recognizing his grief.

"I just..." Illya begins. "I always thought it would be...different. This. That everything would make sense."

Solo bites his lip. "Yeah," he murmurs, more history contained in this single, rough word than Illya has ever even guessed at. Then his expression changes, brightening. Illya follows his gaze to find Gaby dancing, wild and free, waving to them. Solo's mouth tugs up in a crooked half grin, so unlike the oily smirks Illya is accustomed to seeing when Solo is working; this one might be the first genuine smile he's seen from Solo. It's tiny. It's entrancing.

"She's gonna be a handful." Solo doesn't sound at all upset about that. "Think we can keep up with her?"

"We'll find a way. She's ours now."

"Pretty sure we're hers, not the other way around." Then, as Gaby's gestures grow more insistent, Solo rises, seeming to not even consider refusing her second request. But he pauses, turning to Illya. "Last chance to join, Peril."

For a moment Illya is tempted, staring up at Solo, his black hair curling with the damp sweat on his forehead, brought up by all the dancing, his blue eyes shining. He remembers Gaby, though, the almost two months she's been lying to him, and feels his motivation wilt. So he tells Solo to go, then hunkers back down in the corner and reclaims the beer, still warm from Solo's grasp.

* * *

"Come, Gaby. Time to go."

A glare over her shoulder is Gaby's first response to Illya's gentle appeal. "What? No, I'm still dancing." The menace of her tone is cut by the way she stumbles a little over her own feet. "Stop treating me like a child. I'm fine."

Illya feels his face pull into a skeptical frown. Over the past half hour it has become painfully obvious how very _not_ fine she is as her previous manic enthusiasm has drifted towards something desperate. Trying to find a way to convey his concern without causing offense, Illya stares down at her, debating taking her arm but hesitating.

"Will you stop looking at me like that?"

"I'm not–"

"You're always looking at me," she plows on, facing him with a broad wave of her hand. "Like, like, fuck, always _looking_ at me. Just stop it."

"Gaby–" Illya tries again, unable to quash a burst of pity at her frazzled state.

"Like that!" Prodding his chest with one finger, Gaby needs to press a hand to his sternum to stop herself from tipping into him. "Like stuff means...stuff. Things." She squints up at him blearily. "Just leave me alone!"

More than anything Illya wishes he'd traded places with Solo and been the one to go settle their tab, rather than get stuck wrangling a Gaby who, while he's contemplating this, has begun to totter off towards the side exit, forcing Illya to trail after her, uncertain of her plans but certain he can't leave her alone like this. She collides with the door out to the street, giving Illya a murderous look as he follows her. The alley they end up in is a wretched thing, feral cats glowering from a dumpster, the nightclub's exterior wall damp in patches which suggest it had been pissed on more than once that night.

Once they're outside Gaby doesn't seem to know what to do with herself. As Illya takes his first grateful gulp of smoke-free air all night she experiments with a few aimless steps away, glances at the sky, then turns to face him.

"No, don't do that," she repeats, less angry and more desperate.

"Don't do what? I don't understand."

"Looking at me like you _care._ Fuck. Why are you still here? I'm sure you have better things to do than babysit your drunk coworker."

 _Coworker_. Illya feels himself flinch. "I'm here because I do care," he insists.

Gaby blinks at him. Then, inexplicably, she laughs, producing a startled bleat of something on the wrong side of amusement. "Why?" she demands, acrid. "Do you want to fuck me?"

"What?" Illya gapes. "No, that's not—"

"Yes, you do. I saw the way you looked at me in Rome. I'm not stupid, I know how men think." Then she stalks towards him, a predatory glint in her eye despite the unsteadiness of her steps, pausing to chuckle, as if something has just occurred to her. "I think Solo would fuck me too. I can't believe it took me so long to figure you two out. So why not?"

Before Illya has time to process Gaby's latest alarming mood swing she's suddenly _there_ , pressing against his front, nimble fingers fisting the fabric of his jacket.

"Gaby?" he gasps, completely, utterly out of his depth, wishing more than anything he'd let Solo deal with this. "What are you—?"

"Uh, Peril? Gaby? What's going on?"

Illya freezes. Glancing over, he finds Solo leaning around the opened door, looking nearly as bewildered as Illya feels.

"We're fucking," Gaby declares, almost primly, somehow.

Solo squints at her. "...Okay?" When she doesn't provide further explanation he opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. "So, quick follow-up question..."

"It's not a big deal. Look, you, fuck, no, _you_ —Why doesn't English have the right words?" she breaks off to complain. "Just 'you' and 'you', both the same, it doesn't make sense. Should have a different word for one person or for more. Anyways, _both_ of you, since we're all stuck with each other's words on our skin, nothing matters, so why not fuck and get it over with?"

"Wow, 'just fuck and get it over with', that's the spirit," Solo retorts, tone strained with what sounds like a failed attempt at humour. "Makes me feel great."

"Fuck you, Solo." Pushing off Illya, Gaby focuses on Solo, the new target of her ire.

"You sound just like my old boss. So no, hard pass."

"What's your problem? You didn't have any issue fucking half of Rome."

Solo's nostrils flare. "Seriously? That's—"

"Were you ever going to tell me?" Illya asks softly, staring at his own shoes. He's standing right in a puddle. His shoes will be ruined. He should move. He can't seem to.

"What?" Gaby asks, distracted. "What are you talking a—"

"That we're matches."

Gaby blinks at him again. "I don't..." Her expression starts to veer towards panic. "I never said—"

"You just said it now. 'Our words are on each other's skin so why not?'. You knew this whole time? Cowboy said...but I didn't want to believe him."

Taking a step backwards, Gaby shakes her head. "I didn't....I wasn't...You _told_ him?" she demands, rounding on Solo.

"It's been two months! How the hell was I supposed to know you never did?"

Then Illya and Solo both stare at Gaby. Her gaze swivels between them. She backs away another few steps.

"You weren't..."

With a burst of noise the door bangs open, nearly slammed into Solo's shoulder by a group of drunk students. Spaniards, based on the slurred snippets Illya catches. One of the men hollers something at Gaby, provoking roars of laughter from his friends before they stagger off down the street.

"Fuckers," Solo hisses, reminding Illya that he would've understood. "Motherfucking pieces of shit." Illya has never seen Solo so incensed, not once. Solo breaks away, pacing up the alley half a dozen strides then returning, hands jittering against his thighs. Then he freezes, staring past Illya's shoulder.

Gaby. Illya whips around. She's already in tears, raw and livid, swiping furiously at her face.

"Gaby..." Solo murmurs.

"Oh, fuck off," she croaks, clawing at her eyes but unable to stop her tears. Then she seems to realize that she can't win the fight against them and she swears again, head dropping in defeat. Standing in that awful alley, fitfully tugging down the hem of her short, now rumpled dress, knees knocking a little as she wobbles in the heels she'd complained about endlessly when Solo had bought them for her cover, she looks miserable.

Solo steps closer to her, his gaze achingly soft for a fraction of a second before he forces his expression into neutrality. "Let's get you back to the hotel." Heading off her protest, he continues. "I know. I know you're scared. And hurting. But we..."

For the second time that night Illya is abruptly reminded that she's twenty-five, no, twenty-four years old, grieving a father she's never been allowed to know, in a strange country with two men she barely knows but is now inescapably bound to.

"Come, Gaby," Illya says, setting aside his own hurt for the moment to carefully take Gaby's hands, still damp with tears. "Time to go home."

She just stares, wide-eyed as a spooked horse paralyzed by the decision between bolting and lashing out. Then she lets out a broken little noise, sagging, almost swaying into Illya's chest before she seems to remember that they don't _do_ that and instead curling inwards, pulling her hands back to hug herself as she stares at her feet, sniffling, wet, snotty.

"Okay. Yeah," she mutters, not moving until Solo starts to walk and she numbly trails after him.

Illya watches them for a few beats. He sighs. Then he, too, follows.

* * *

After he and Solo herd Gaby back to her hotel room, Illya has a moment to contemplate while he leans against the bathroom door, listening to Solo keep Gaby company while she throws up. Illya doesn't know what to do. There's no use for him in there with them, even less for him to do standing around in Gaby's room. He can't fix any of this for any of them, which, for someone who was trained ever since his first days at military school that his primary purpose in life is to solve problems as efficiently as possible, is unacceptable, sending him into an irrational fit of irritability. He can't even bring himself to simply leave; abandoning Solo while the man is, based on the sounds coming from the bathroom, holding back Gaby's hair while she retches one more time seems callous, even factoring Illya's dislike of Solo and present irritability. So he just drums his fingers against his thigh, trying to tune out the worst of the sounds, wishing this horrible night would just hurry up and be over.

Eventually Gaby stops and emerges with Solo. She looks miserable. He just looks tired. Illya's desire to snap at them crumbles away. He says nothing until he and Solo are out in the hallway, heading for the stairs.

"She seems..." he starts, but can't find the words to finish. "She won't be in any condition for her surveillance shift tomorrow morning."

Solo swears under his breath, dragging a hand across his face. "Forgot about that." Then they're at his floor, Solo pausing, eyeing Illya. "Peril..."

There's a moment in which Illya is certain that Solo is about to reveal some profound truth, magic words that would somehow make everything okay enough that Illya's brain would stop screaming constantly about how deeply _wrong_ this all is. But the moment passes, leaving Illya to stare at a man standing in the stairwell of a hotel half a world away from home at almost four in the morning, exhausted, out of answers and overdue for a shave. One of them will have to get up in just a few hours to cover Gaby's shift. Despite Illya's numerous grievances with Solo, he knows that the American would, without any thought to shirking his duty, volunteer for the job.

"I'll do it," Illya offers, trying to shrug his way out of the questioning look Solo pins on him.

"You still can't avoid her forever."

Illya winces. He'd hoped Solo was too tired for such insight. "One of us will have to talk to her tomorrow morning and I do not think she will want this to be me." Which is true, though it doesn't mean Illya isn't also just avoiding her. "You have a better way with her. And I need..." Space? Time? Illya just needs to be alone long enough to actually think about all that he's learned tonight.

Seeming to have reached a level of fatigue strong enough to overpower his curiosity, Solo just nods, murmuring his thanks to Illya then disappearing down the hall.

* * *

Dawn comes too soon. Still, Illya rises and goes to work. He does surveillance on a suspected associate of their target for most of the morning, then goes to meet Waverly with the latest news, scowling when Waverly's gaze turns keen and perceptive at the sight of Illya instead of Gaby.

"She's sick," Illya grunts, heading off any inquiries, attempting to fold his legs under the tiny café table Waverly has chosen without looking too ungainly, probably failing.

"Oh dear," replies Waverly in that maddening English way of his. "Nothing serious, I hope?"

"Won't affect the mission."

"Excellent news, though that's not precisely what I asked."

They're interrupted by a waiter. Waverly already has a cup of tea steaming in front of him. Illya orders, pinning his hopes on the notorious strength of Turkish coffee to get him through the rest of the day. Once they're left alone he picks up the conversation.

"She...had a bad night." If there's one thing Illya understands, it's the value of discretion, especially to one's superiors. "Should be fine by tomorrow."

"Good." Waverly's voice softens for a moment, untwisting from its usual wry pomp into something more genuine. "And you?"

"And me what?"

"'Bad night' as well?" Waverly's eyes dart along Illya's body in a precise survey. "Dark circles under your eyes, and your usual drink is tea, not coffee."

Illya just shrugs.

"You know, Kuryakin, we've not had much time to speak privately, you and I, but I feel I owe you an apology."

"Sir?"

Waverly takes a brief inhale. "Back in Rome, when the first notions of keeping the three of you together begun to," he made a chewing gesture with his hand, "gnaw at my brain, I considered the dynamics of it all, and one of my primary hesitations was that I knew I'd be placing a rather unfair burden upon you in particular."

"What do you mean, sir?" he questions carefully.

"As you've surely noticed, your new partners are not the...conventional career spy types. Solo's brilliant, does his job but he'll run the other way if you tell him _how_ to do it. Probably with your wallet in his hand, for that matter. And though Gaby possesses a natural gift for deceit so bounteous it borders on alarming, and though I did the best I could to train her while dodging the Stasi, she's green. Not to mention her natural wariness can be a bit too keenly honed for her own good. I suspect that this tendency to nerves is more the root of her current indisposition than a physical ailment?"

"Perhaps," Illya allows, uncomfortable.

A low hum emerges from Waverly. "I'll speak to her. But you. You, Kuryakin, are on paper the single most qualified agent I've ever run. You've got more years of training than the other two combined. God only knows what they did to you at that military school but clearly it worked." Waverly makes a face. "In practice apparently a touch blind to double crosses by innocent-seeming young women, but, well, everyone's got their weakness. So, when fate presented me with the three of you on the same platter, I knew that you would be the strongest link of the bunch without any particular need to be...managed. Solo and Gaby are by no means _weak_ links, but both need very particular sorts of managing to remain effective. Knowing all of this, I wouldn't have gone through with it if I hadn't felt confident in relying upon you to be the steady foundation of this whole business."

Steady. Illya has been called many things in his life, unstable, violent, but never _steady_.

"And," continues Waverly, "though it may not seem it, I'm aware that your partners are not having the easiest time adjusting to things. I assume you've noticed this?"

Nodding, Illya makes a noise of agreement. Waverly may not understand the main reason they're having such trouble, but Illya supposes that their work isn't helping the personal matters. "Gaby in particular, right now. She struggles."

"This is a big change in her life. And everything that happened with her father, well, she won't talk to me about it because she's _Gaby_ , but I suspect it's got her very uncertain of herself, which in my experience tends to manifest in her with fits of hostility."

"Yes, that is accurate," snorts Illya.

"I know this is tremendously unfair of me to ask of you, but..." Waverly bites his lip. "Without revealing things which are not mine to reveal, life has been dreadfully unkind to her. I know she may seem difficult and, indeed, hostile at times, and I'm not saying you should excuse this altogether, but I'm asking her to trust you, despite all of the experiences she's had which tell her she shouldn't trust anyone. So if you can, try to be kind to her."

Holding his gaze, Waverly waits past all of the conflicted emotion that pushes its way through Illya, waits for Illya to nod once more, solemn.

"Right. Brilliant." Hailing the waiter, Waverly pauses to order another tea. "So, tell me what you've been up to this morning."

* * *

It's late afternoon, the narrow streets of Istanbul slowly disappearing into the long shadows of its buildings, when Illya returns to the hotel. He hesitates in the lobby, debating three possible destinations. It's Solo's room he chooses, but not Solo who answers his knocking, Gaby's gaze equal parts wary and curious as she peeks through the crack in the door.

"Oh," says Illya, any plan he'd had for this interaction already vanished, his new partners continuing their refusal to be predictable. "I didn't..."

"He'll be back in a minute," Gaby provides. She blinks at him. "You can come in. If you like." Not awaiting his response, she closes the door long enough to flip the chain free, then leaves it open, disappearing into the room. Illya, for want of a better choice, follows her.

"I'm not sure..."

"I'm sorry," she cuts in, swinging to face him again but seeming to regret this choice as her eyes wander away to stare somewhere at the wall a meter to his left. Like her first apology to him, back in Rome, it's punchy, like she has to push past something to make the words come out. But also like Rome, it seems sincere.

"Thank you," Illya replies carefully, unable to summon up words of forgiveness when his hurt is still so fresh and deep.

"I shouldn't have...I meant to tell you."

"Gaby..."

"No, I really did," she insists. "Just, with the mission in Rome I couldn't, you know? I didn't know what would happen and it just seemed so much simpler, to avoid things being complicated."

"You and Solo didn't seem to have issues with _complication_."

She flinches. "That was different."

A mirthless noise forces itself out of Illya. "That's exactly what he said. What is so different with me? Why does he know and I didn't until last night?"

"Because he doesn't give a damn!"

As they both pause, stunned by Gaby's shout, the door pops open.

"Well, that was a total bust. They didn't have—Oh. Hey, Peril." The pause resumes while Solo waits for his greeting to be returned. "I see," he murmurs. "I should really let you two—"

"No, I want to hear from both of you. Why do you two share so much when I know nothing?" Illya demands.

"Illya..." sighs Solo.

"Why?" Gaby turns incredulous. "Maybe because he hasn't spent two months staring at me like, like...like you want something from me and you're just waiting for me to stop being difficult and just give in."

"This again? I still don't understand—"

"Or maybe because he doesn't _want_ this fucked up situation any more than I do. I don't want any of this. I don't want your words on my arm, I don't want to be shackled to the two of you for the rest of my life, and I _really_ don't want to be forced to fall in love with you. So I have no clue why you seem to expect—"

"Whoa, back up," interrupts Solo. "What's this about shackles and being forced to fall in love with people?"

Glaring at Solo, Gaby turns defensive. "That's what everyone said will happen. We'll be stuck together forever and won't have any choice about it."

"Who is this 'everyone'?" Solo asks, aghast.

"It's just, it's _everyone_. That's what people say."

"That's... really not right." Solo shakes his head. "I don't...You've been thinking that this whole time?"

"Well, yes," she snaps.

"And Peril? What have been your assumptions?"

Now it's Illya's turn to feel defensive. "No assumptions. I know that soulmates fall in love and stay in love forever. This is not guess, it's a fact."

"Based on...?"

"My parents. And—" He almost continues on to cite the stories of Agafya Mikhailovna before stopping with the suspicion that he probably can't claim _those_ as fact, strictly speaking. "And others," he provides instead, vaguely embarrassed.

Solo just stares at both of them. "Right. Everyone sit down, we need to talk about this."

"But—" Illya says.

" _Sit._ "

Illya forces himself to go completely still. If he doesn't, he'll give into the shiver that shoots up his spine at Solo's words and commanding tone, and he doesn't have time at present to consider the full meaning of _that_ but it's decidedly not something he wants to explore here and now. Instead, trying to tell himself that his face isn't heating, he sits in the nearest armchair, watching silently as Solo and Gaby adopt opposite ends of the sofa.

"So, I'm guessing neither of you have done much actual research about this?"

Now it's Illya and Gaby's turn to look at each other. "Of course not," Illya says slowly. "Research on the topic is not permitted. Same in East Germany, too, yes?" Then, after Gaby confirms this. "Authorities felt the topic was too much tied to superstition. Religion. That it would promote a return to backwards beliefs."

"Okay. Wow. Well, that explains a lot," says Solo.

"It's different in America?" Gaby questions.

"Yeah. It's not, well, it's not _promoted_ as such but it's not completely banned. Back home, growing up, there were a couple of books at the library and I..." his gaze darts away, as if embarrassed. "I did my reading. Despite the nosy old librarian who kept glaring at me. Anyways, I learned from there. From my parents," he mentions, quietly, moving on before Illya can question him on this. "And I can tell you that both of you are reading way too much into this."

"What do you mean?" Illya demands.

Solo takes a moment, twisting the signet ring around his little finger as he thinks. "You're not wrong. They are significant. But it's not as strong as either of you think. This isn't a life sentence. And it's not a fairytale romance. The marks indicate a connection, yes. One with the potential to be deep. But beyond that, it's up to us. We decide what this means and what we choose to do about it. And that could be nothing. At the end of all this we could go our separate ways, find other people, fall in love with them, get married, the whole works."

"But—" That can't be right. Illya can't believe it. Won't believe it. "That's not what I—My parents—"

"Love each other very much, I assume from your tone. Or loved, depending on your father's current, well..." Solo adds on a shrug. "Your parents were lucky; socially-acceptable pairing for gender, race, class. They won the soulmate lottery. Take five seconds and think about how this goes with you and _I_ , Illya. Think about what kind of happy ending we could possibly have."

Illya tries. Every possibility he considers leaves him more depressed than the last. "I can't—"

"Exactly." Solo snorts, mirthless. "And as for you," he turns to Gaby. "Have you fallen hopelessly in love with either of us yet?"

"No," she replies, instant. Illya tries not to feel too hurt about that.

Solo doesn't even blink. "If you were going to be forced to, don't you think it would've happened by now?"

"Well, I guess so..."

"There you go." Leaning back against the sofa again, Solo deflates a little. "Look, guys, I don't know how this is going to go," he says in a hoarse, barely-there voice. "I have no fucking clue and the more I think about it the more that scares the shit out of me. "

Illya bites his lip. "For me," he begins carefully, "my whole life I am looking forward to this. It gave me hope. And there were times, when I was young, that I really needed that. But I kept telling myself that someday I'd find someone, two someones," he amends with a tip of his shoulder towards them, "and I would be..." _Loved_? "okay, finally. But now, things are..."

"Not at all like that," Solo fills in, with a touch of dry humour but not unkind. "Guess we oughta apologize for stomping on all of your dreams."

"I already apologized," points out Gaby in a huff.

"For this specific thing?"

She just glares at Solo. "No," she concedes, grumbly. "Sorry."

"Thank you," murmurs Illya, recognizing from the uncomfortable set of Gaby's shoulders that despite her tone she's making an effort here, and not one that comes easily to her. "Both of you. And you're right, Cowboy. I don't think any of us know what to do."

Solo and Gaby make noises of agreement. Everyone seems to relax by a notch.

"We work," Gaby declares. "We do our jobs. And in between the job, whatever else we want. The marks brought us together, but that's it. I still need to actually get to know you two."

Illya's disappointment must show, because Solo turns to him, a sympathetic expression gliding across his face. "I think we all need time, Peril. Maybe you not as much as me or Gaby, but we're all figuring this out. Is rushing into things really going to help?"

"I suppose not."

There's a contemplative silence that settles across the room.

"Well, I know what I want to do now." Gaby stands, tugging down the skirt of her dress. "I want dinner."

"Dinner?" questions Illya, jarred from her abrupt shift of topic.

"Yeah. I slept through breakfast and I was too hungover to eat lunch. I'm starving."

Chuckling, Solo rises too. "A little early, but I could be persuaded. Peril?"

Illya shakes himself. If there's one thing he suspects he'll always be able to rely on his new partners for, it's their ability to surprise him. As he stands, Gaby turns to Solo, quizzing him on nearby restaurants, the two of them drawn into each other's excitement, nearly abuzz. Perhaps, Illya considers, his lifelong devotion to predictability and rules could do with a bit of revision anyways. So he follows them out into the waning summer sun, still unsure what they're _doing_ , but content to do dinner with them for now.

* * *

Late September in Istanbul, as it later turns out, is more tolerable to Illya than the summer. It's still too hot but the advancing days bring cool evenings and fewer tourists. On this, their last day in the city that spans continents, Gaby has convinced them to go to the beach. Meaning she told them she wanted to go, Solo hadn't even considered denying her, and Illya, who has been discovering that he is _extremely_ bad at denying both of them, agreed with only a token protest. An hour later he's toeing a stray pebble, watching as Solo flirts with the edge of the surf and Gaby takes in the whole place with wide eyes.

She's so much _more_ than Illya ever thought back in Rome. More stubborn, scrappier, and even more skilled at driving him up the wall when their moods clash. There's an aching, poorly plastered-over brokenness to her that Illya hadn't realized he'd been poking at with clumsy, artless curiosity until after that night at the club. Yet she's more brilliant, too; so very fiercely alive, and beginning to show hints of a sense of humour so dry that Illya is never entirely sure if she's joking or not until Solo laughs. When she's happy she shines bright enough to dazzle him and Solo both.

Solo, too, is more. Beyond the outward charm Illya has been unearthing hints of tremendous depth, revelations which he supposes he owes in large part to Gaby, because it's with her that Solo is at his best. Though those two squabble, sometimes viciously, Solo is inescapably fond of her in a way that Illya has begun to understand is very rare indeed for the suave American. Solo is even soft with her at times, his tenderness sending deep pangs of longing through Illya's chest. They're not there yet. Maybe someday.

"You're thinking too hard," Gaby calls from the shore, making Illya glance over again, his camera strap digging into the back of his neck.

"Yeah, c'mon, Peril. The water's great. You too, missy, you're the one who wanted to do this." Solo tugs at Gaby's hands, stepping backwards into the water as he draws her forwards. She pauses, though, sticking a hand out to Illya with a beckoning flutter of her fingers, to which Solo adds a tempting grin. Illya is powerless to refuse. He isn't keen on getting into the water, not after the near drowning of Rome, but he takes a measured breath then walks across the sand. Then Gaby is beaming up at him, little fingers curling around his wrist, and suddenly Illya suspects that if promised such a reward he would have walked across hot coals.

It isn't a good day for the beach. The wind is pounding off the sea, sending Gaby's dress, the buttercup yellow one that was Solo's present for her birthday a few weeks ago, whipping against Illya's legs when he gets closer, ruffling Solo's coif into endearing chaos. Though to Illya it isn't cold, the formless swelter of summer has sharpened into something with an edge of chill.

Illya glances down, his toes curling in the sodden sand as a wave creeps closer before flattening to slip back off shore. The water's next effort is stronger, washing over his ankles. A cold shudder rumbles down Illya's spine. His chest is too tight.

"Aren't you coming?"

Gaby is tugging at his hand, caught between Solo encouraging her out and Illya holding her back, something a bit too eager in her expression to be explained by just wanting to dip her toes in some water that's too cold for comfort.

"Why did you want to come here? It's no good for swimming." Illya gestures around at a nearby block of flats with chipping stucco, then to a line of commercial barges huffing along the coast. "Not even a pretty beach."

Gaby ducks her head. Keeps it down. The water streams around her feet, eroding miniature valleys on the leeward side of her heels as it rises up the beach, filling those valleys back in on its way out.

"I've never...Rome was the first time I ever saw any water bigger than the Müggelsee, the big lake back home, and everything happened so fast in Rome that I never got a chance to do this." When she lifts her head something self-conscious and fragile lurks in her frown. "I know it's silly, but I just wanted to...to touch it. The sea."

"Not silly," Illya tells her softly, now aware of just how precious such an admission is from her. She glances up at him, cautious, and he smiles at her, Solo adding his own smile when she checks in with him.

The water is still scrabbling at Illya's feet, making his skin scuttle, the tang of brine in the air doing strange things to his stomach. He'll have to deal with this; they'll certainly be around the water for other missions. Yet that will take time, and Gaby is now gazing off at the division between dark blue below and bright blue above, impatient, as if itching to stretch out her hands and grab the horizon for herself.

"You go," he tells her, slipping his hand from her grasp to step back, able to breathe again now that the water wasn't clawing at his toes. "Say hello to the sea for me."

She snorts at his silly turn of phrase, not even a real joke but made into something he's proud of because it's amused her. Then she scrutinizes him, ever perceptive. Perhaps someday he'll explain this all to her, but for now he just wants her to enjoy this. So he gives her a reassuring look which seems to satisfy her, her face brightening before she turns back to the water.

Then she's out in a flash, releasing a tiny yelp when a wave rolls over the sensitive backs of her knees but not letting that slow her, fisting the yellow cotton of her skirt in one hand so she can wade deeper still, only stopping as the water breaks around her thighs. Solo laughs, drawn into her enthusiasm, letting her tug him around like a dog on a leash as she roams through the waves. Soon they're chasing each other around, Solo's trousers getting soaked when she splashes him. But he gets his revenge by lunging forward with surprising agility, employing his longer reach to catch her around the waist. The next second he's spinning her as she clutches at his shoulders, producing a mix of delighted, hiccoughing squeals of laughter and some of the most astonishingly rude invectives that Illya has ever heard.

They're ridiculous. And neither is anything like his teenage fantasies. He knows it's unfair to hold them to that, but those fantasies were _his_ , and they'd gotten him through so much.

Gaby shrieks, interrupting his thoughts, when Solo picks her up then mimes dropping her in. Her response is to threaten him with something both obscene and anatomically impossible.

Illya picks his camera up off his chest and takes it to his face, catching Solo on a broad, beautiful grin while he swings Gaby around.

No, Illya still doesn't know where they're all heading together, which still terrifies him if he thinks about it too hard. But for this one day, he tries to set that aside and just get to know them now.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings** : Some brief but vaguely suicidal thoughts in the last part of Illya's "before" section, which happens while he is a teen. Oblique, brief references to past self-harm (cutting) during the scene immediately after Napoleon and Gaby escape East Berlin. Heavy drinking (the drinking itself is not "shown" but the effects are) during the nightclub scenes in Istanbul. Some implied period-typical bigotry (homophobia mostly) but in asides and quick mentions, nothing lasting or explicit.
> 
>  **etc**  
>  As you have perhaps guessed by this being part of a series, yes, there is more to tell in this story. I cannot promise when this _more_ will be published, but I have been working too long (nearly two years) and hard on this fic to abandon it now. This fic would not be on your screens today if not for my wondrous, wonderful beta, bioticsandheadshots, who has the patience of a saint for my rambling, a keen eye for editing to boot, and the gentle persuasion to encourage me to publish this now, rather than hold it back another gods-know-how-long while I shape the second part.
> 
> Further enormous thanks go to my salt squad. I love you. I cherish you. Now please stop threatening me with Ed Sheeran songs.


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